


Quarantine and the Leverage 3

by Yuliares



Category: Leverage
Genre: Brew Pub, Cookies, Developing Relationship, Donuts, Easter, Eliot Spencer's Cooking, F/M, Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hardison's Nana - Freeform, Movie Night, Multi, Popcorn, Quarantine, RingFit, Serenade, Workout Plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24835132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: Quarantine is declared—so of course Eliot shows up with a bag of groceries. As if they thought for a minute that Eliot would trust them to feed themselves.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker, Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 31
Kudos: 205





	Quarantine and the Leverage 3

**Author's Note:**

> Kindly beta'd for me by the lovely [TreeFrogie84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/)!

_For the safety of all our loyal customers and hard-working employees, the Bridgeport Brewing Company is temporarily closing our doors due to the recent COVID-19 outbreak. Please check our Facebook and Twitter for any updates._

_Stay safe and we look forward to serving you again in the future!_

_—The Bridgeport Brewing Company Crew_

~

Eliot shows up at the apartment with two giant bags of groceries and a duffle bag full of pots and pans, which is only surprising because Hardison thought the majority of Eliot’s kitchen equipment had already been smuggled into the apartment over the last six months.

“Hey man,” he calls from the couch. He doesn’t bother getting up. Last time he tried to help put away groceries, Eliot said some deeply unkind words about his mental acuity.

“Oooh, what’s for dinner?” asks Parker, dropping down from the stairway.

“... salmon,” says Eliot, and places three whole lemons on the counter. One wobbles, as if considering rolling away, but subsides beneath a glare from the chef. “With couscous and a lemon yogurt sauce.”

Parker pouts, and pokes at the ground pork. “Not meatballs?”

Eliot bats her hand away and shoves it in the fridge. “That’s for later, I’m gonna prep and freeze ‘em. The salmon won’t keep as long. I, uh,” Eliot turns around and starts speaking into the cupboards he’s opening and closing, accessing their dry goods. “Figure I’ll stay here for a while.” 

“We know,” says Parker, “Hardison said we had to buy flour and sugar if we wanted cookies,” and wanders off.

Eliot shoots a look at Hardison.

Hardison smirks. As if they thought for a minute that Eliot would trust them to feed themselves. 

~

Eliot already spends at least one night a week in the guest bedroom, if not more often. He’s got a couple sets of clothing in the drawers, and a pair of free weights under the bed. He blames Parker—she was the one that insisted on dinner together after every job. They tended to stick close the first night anyways, make sure there were no loose ends. So he’d take the guest bedroom. And then the dinners turned into a regular Friday thing. A small taste of Hardison’s latest concoction, maybe crack open a few beers actually worth drinking. Stay the night, which meant breakfast the next morning. And then it just became a habit, and before he knew it, Eliot had an extra toothbrush on the sink next to Hardison’s damn water pick.

He doesn’t know where Parker stores her toothbrush. He’d seen it once: a Saturday morning when she’d wandered into the kitchen with rumpled hair and an oversized sleep shirt, industriously scrubbing at her teeth. The toothbrush had glitter in the handle.

“No toothbrushes in the kitchen,” he’d told her, and she’d rolled her eyes and walked away. 

She’d been back in under three minutes to steal blueberries out of the pancake batter.

~

It’s been three days, and Parker wants to scream. And she _likes_ Hardison and Eliot, she _does_ . They’re not actively seeking her out, but it still feels like wherever she goes, they’re just _there_. 

Eliot in the hallways with the laundry basket, the _thump-tump_ of the washing machine, the intermittent _swish-thud_ of Hardison’s little basketball hoop on the back of the door, the fridge slamming as Hardison grabs a soda and tracks a path back to his room but veers off to fiddle with the TV cords. Plates clacking together as Eliot grumily mutters and re-slots whatever Hardison put into the dishwasher before him.

They’re _always_ _around_ , jangling on the outer edge of her awareness. 

It’s driving her crazy.

Not just her, apparently, because Eliot and Hardison explode at each other with the fridge door hanging open.

“You’re always messing around with stuff you ought to leave alone!”

“We’re not running roll-call for every berry in this fridge! This isn’t a barracks!”

“Some discipline—”

“—in my own damn home—”

“You never—”

Parker slaps her hands over her ears and flees into the vents.

Finally alone, Parker takes deep breaths until her heartbeat settles into something smoother. The metal is cool on her skin. It feels nice. Refreshing. 

The vents hum softly with the air intake, but are otherwise quiet.

She thinks about Boylan tumbler locks from the 1950’s, and once those are cracked, she selects one from the 1960’s, and then the next decade up, slowly and methodically turning them around in her mind.

She’s stiff and cold when she opens her eyes again.

The vents hum softly, and there’s a faint hint of… she blinks, and sniffs deliberately.

Buttery popcorn.

Parker smiles. Someone is trying to tempt her out.

She stretches, shakes out her arms, and decides that yes. She’s ready for popcorn and _always there_ again.

She follows the scent of butter, and hears Eliot’s voice first. “I ain’t helpin’ you eat that if she doesn’t wanna come out,” and then Hardison’s saying “Don’t even front, man. I _know_ you made that bougie kettle corn for me.”

They don’t sound angry anymore, so she scoots forward and snakes out a hand to snag the popcorn bag.

“Ah ah ah,” says Hardison, grinning and taking a step back. “We agreed—no messy food in the vents.”

“Popcorn isn’t messy,” she disagrees, and folds herself over to flip out and into the living room. When she’s right-side up again, she makes grabby hands and Hardison passes it to her, still warm.

“So,” says Eliot, and with a flick of his wrist, fans out 3 DVDs. “What are we watching?”

“Wait, what? No.” Hardison frowns until Eliot rolls his eyes.

“What are we watching _first_.”

“Much better,” says Hardison, grinning.

“We’re taking a break for dinner though,” Eliot insists, and winks at Parker. “Hope you wanted spaghetti, because I canned a bunch of sauce today.”

She can see it unfold in her mind—the fridge door slamming shut and Eliot stomping downstairs to the industrial kitchen, rolling up his sleeves, and taking out his feelings on crates of tomatoes. _Stress cooking_ , Parker thinks. Hardison probably retreated to his room and played something with explosions, anxiously jiggling his leg until he calmed down.

“With meatballs?” she asks.

Eliot tips his head. “Of course.”

“So…” she looks from one of them to the other. “We’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, babe,” Hardison says, slow and deliberate. “We’re okay.”

Eliot just smiles softly and nods.

They’re all okay.

“I call back of the couch!” she says in a rush, and takes a running leap, nearly knocking over yet another bowl of popcorn someone had perched on the edge. She can smell parmesan and... rosemary. Weird.

“Careful—”

“Yo, what are we watching first?”

~

Eliot is _not_ pleased when he passes by the dark office at 6am and finds Hardison still awake, face eerily lit by the computer screens. The only movement is his flickering eyes and long fingers _clack clack-iting_ across the keyboard. Eliot swears that thing makes more noise than a normal keyboard. Five empty soda bottles litter the desk next to him.

"That's not natural," he mutters.

Hardison doesn’t appear to notice him, so Eliot walks in and smacks the headphones off his head.

“What the— come on, man, give those back!”

“You,” says Eliot, pointing, “Need physical activity. It’s not healthy, sitting in the dark. Not moving.”

“You’ll get fat,” agrees Parker, popping up out of nowhere and whispering right into his ear.

“Jesus,” he yelps, and only Eliot fisting his shirt saves Hardison from tipping backwards. “Woman, don’t _do_ that! Eliot —”

Eliot grimly pulls him forward until they’re face to face. “We’re going to the gym.”

Hardison bats at Eliot’s fist, desperately tries to turn back towards the keyboard. “Come on, I gotta— gyms are _closed_ —”

Both Parker and Eliot give him a _look_.

“Aw, no,” says Hardison, shoulders drooping.

“Climbing walls?” asks Parker.

Eliot shugs. “Sure. Hardison, we leave in one hour. Wear something you can sweat in.”

“Yay!” cheers Parker, clapping her hands. 

Hardison groans.

~

He can’t stop yawning as they emerge from the staff-only service door and survey the quiet rows of quadimizers and pull-up bars and whatever else these torture machines are called. Hardison doesn’t know, and does not _want_ to know. Parker immediately peels off to do her own thing. He tries not to take it as a betrayal, and is mostly successful. He hadn’t actually expected her to stick around.

“This isn’t safe, you know,” he points out. Again. “We’re supposed to be quarantining for a reason. This is, like, disrespecting the CDC.”

“We’re not going to come into contact with anyone,” Eliot says. “Besides, here, we’re wiping everything down.”

Hardison lets out an _oof_ as a container of bleach wipes is shoved into his chest. He frowns at Eliot, but that damn infuriating man just grins back at him. 

“So, first day! You wanna start with legs or arms?”

~

Parker likes bodies. Even with all the ways Sophie has taught her how to lie with it, she thinks they’re more reliable, overall.

Words get all twisty, and not in a good way. Coiled springs are good, and piles of spaghetti. She thinks of the meatballs Eliot made, the extras neatly plopped into rows on the sheet pan and pushed into the freezer between sheets of paper. He’ll want to save them, but maybe she can convince him to make a different noodle dish. She likes the one with all the grated cheese and bacon bits.

“Parker!”

She snaps back at Eliot’s voice. “Mhm!” she says brightly, and is delighted to see that Hardison is down on his knees, arm at an uncomfortable angle, banana on the floor. Hardison sighs. “She wasn’t watching, was she.”

Eliot frowns at her, but it’s his soft frown, the one his face takes out of habit. “I need you to pay attention, Parker. This is the most important disarm you should know. Now, I’m going to show it in slow motion. I’m demonstrating on you next, so Hardison can see what it looks like.”

Eliot releases the hold, but his hands smooth Hardison’s rumpled shirt and pat his shoulder before he breaks away to grab the banana.

“Now watch,” Eliot says, as Hardison pretends to load his semi-automatic tropical fruit.

These two bodies, here. She trusts them more than anything.

She watches.

~

“So... I was just thinking,” Hardison says, overly casual. “Easter’s coming up and all, and we should… you know, do something special.”

Parker tilts her head. “Egg hunt?”

“Traditional, but I was thinking… cookies! Delicious, hand-made with care, we can mail them to all our friends—”

“What friends—”

“My family,” Hardison says louder, talking over Eliot. “Has a tradition, we make the same cookie every year using my Nana’s secret recipe. So this year, I figured we could do it here. Together.”

~

“You have to get the Cadbury mini eggs,” Hardison explains, very seriously. “They have the perfect candy shell, you can’t get an off brand—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” says Eliot, snatching the list from Hardison’s fingers. “I know how to grocery shop, Hardison, I do it for you every week.”

~

They’re down in the industrial kitchen, first batch of cookies in the oven and chocolate frosting done and in a bowl. It’s pretty good—Parker takes her taste-testing duties very seriously. More seriously than Hardison’s aunt’s son Daniel, that’s for sure, even if Hardison won’t shut up about him and his twin sister Isabelle. Besides, _Daniel_ probably never got to try whatever fancy French cookie dough Eliot’s made.

“Now these cookies are special. Make ‘em for my Nana every year,” Hardison says proudly as he leans up against the counter, and the unpleasant feeling that’s been growing in her stomach twists. 

Every year. Multiple years. Years upon years that she didn’t even know Hardison existed, and now she feels like she’s only just arrived to a race that’s halfway run.

“Under supervision, I bet,” mutters Eliot, nudging her.

“Haha,” she chuckles weakly. 

Eliot leans closer. “Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“He keeps talking about them,” she mutters, and then jumps as the oven timer beeps.

“We have to add the thumbprints while they’re still warm,” Hardison says urgently, throwing the oven door open and scrabbling for a silicon mat.

Eliot grabs the hot sheet pan with both oven mitts. “Slow down, you’re gonna burn yourself! Parker, can you just—put down some hotpads. Hardison, go grab the cream cheese and milk from the fridge while these cool off.”

“Why do I—”

“Because you’re bouncing, and you’re gonna knock something over. Go!”

Hardison bounces off in the direction of the walk-in.

“Parker,” Eliot says. “Hardison’s just tryin’ a share something special.”

“It’s not about us.”

“It is about us, Parker. Us, and them, at the same time. He’s here, isn’t he?”

She rolls her eyes. “He’s here because of quarantine.”

“Because he already _chose_ us. You love something, you want to share it. That’s what this is, he—”

“Here we are! What’s this for?” calls Hardison, brandishing the goods, and Parker spins around quickly to fiddle with the candy bags.

Eilot sighs and points at the clean stand mixer. “Macaron fillings, put ‘em here.”

“Parker, babe, you sneaking those candy eggs?”

“No!” she says quickly, throwing her hands up and wiggling her fingers, three candy eggs rolling down her sleeve and into the crook of her elbow, and for a second, everything rights itself again. Hardison’s giving her a knowing grin, and Eliot’s throwing a towel over his shoulder and poking at the kitchen scale.

“Now,” says Hardison, leaning over the bakingsheets, “My cousins and I always got to do this part, so I’m a pro. Watch the master!” Hardison indents the cookie with his thumb, right in the center. “Like that! And then—” he leans over to dollop a bit of chocolate into the groove, and then tops it with a single candy egg. “Tadaa! Like a little bird nest. Cute, right?”

Parker looks at it. It’s… fine. Over Hardison’s shoulder, Eliot meets her eyes.

“Cute,” she says, and nods quickly.

“C’mere,” Hardison says happily, “You can do this half.”

~

Parker is hidden under the bed when Hardison comes in and closes the door. There’s a lacy blanket slumped over on the side, which is perfect for peeking through. 

His Nana made it. Of course.

Hardison makes a phone call every Thursday, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure who’s on the other end.

Hardison’s face glows as he taps his phone, double-checks the earbud. He paces as the phone rings, bare feet sinking into the carpet. Parker likes the slight crinkle noise it makes as it crunches down.

She can’t hear the call, but she knows when it gets picked up because Hardison stops moving and says “Nana!”, the words bright and bursting with sunshine. 

Hardison told them “Nana took me in,” but Archie took Parker in, and she never feels sunshine when she says his name. He is important to her. She taps her sternum, searching. She thinks of Archie’s approving grin, but that’s a zip, or a zing. Maybe people like them are more electricity than warmth. She thinks harder. When she recruited Archie for the Dubenich job, when he called her “daughter” on that sidewalk in front of his family. His real family. That was something bright, right under her ribs. Is that family?

She’s getting distracted. She focuses on Hardison again.

“—checking in, see how you’re doing. Mmhmm.” he pauses, then laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Well, if you get sick of casseroles, you know I can bring you anything. What? No, groceries!” He laughs again. “I love you Nana, you know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Parker chews her lip. Most people have families, real ones. She doesn’t think about it when they’re _on_ , but when they’re between jobs it niggles at her, like the _brip brip brip_ of a leaky faucet. Hardison’s family is like a safe house, just for him. Only him. At any point, he could just… choose to go.

She can hear Sophie’s voice in her head— _Parker, are you jealous?_

Hardison’s laughing again, and her stomach tangles, guilty.

She shouldn’t think things like that. Hardison would never leave them.

She shakes her head to dislodge the leaks. If this was a job, she’d lay low, observe, not jump to conclusions.

She watches Hardison’s feet begin to pace again, toes sinking into the soft fibers, his voice bright and warm.

_Do the recon,_ she thinks, and listens.

“—like em? Yeah, we made them just like we always did. No, same recipe, I swear! Mmhmm. Well, Eliot’s kind of a genius in the kitchen.” A pause, feet spinning. “Yeah, those were him. He wouldn’t let us touch the batter, said we’d ‘overbeat’ it or something, but Parker and I did the fillings and put ‘em together! You would’ve laughed so hard to see how much powdered sugar we had all over the place by the end of it—Eliot was so mad—and that was before Parker made this tower—”

Parker smiles. _You love something, you want to share it._

~

Hardison’s phone rings, and he yells, “It’s Sophie!” and they all gather around the phone.

“Hey Soph,” says Hardison. “The whole gang’s here, I got you on speakerphone.”

“Aw, you guys, we just got your package, and these cookies are adorable! And the little bags with the curled ribbons—”

“That was me!” interjects Parker, grinning. “Eliot showed me how to do the ribbon.”

“Well, I love it. I’m guessing the macarons were Eliot—”

“We helped put them together,” protests Hardison.

“Well, they’re lovely. And the little bird’s nests, just love it. Nate, come say hello,” she says, her voice fading, probably leaning away. “Nate!”

There’s a rustle, and then—

“Hey,” says Nate’s voice. “I don’t know how you found our address, but… good work.”

~

Parker watches Eliot through the vent grille, alone in the quiet space of the brew pub, tables pushed to the sides and bristling with upside-down chair legs. With every day together, the team has finally settled into their own special spaces in the building, and this is one of Eliot’s.

She wonders if he likes to imagine it full of customers, or prefers it like this, empty and open for his… whatever this is. Stage fight? Ritual? It’s not really fighting, because there’s no one to fight, and sometimes he moves really slow, but it’s always deliberate. One step at a time, he works his way from one end to the other, lunging and retreating. Shifting. Breathing.

_Eliot’s dance_ , she decides to call it.

If Hardison is a beam of sunshine, then Eliot is the steady warmth of the sun on your skin.

She watches his hands stretch and curl, and wonders what he’s reaching for.

~

Eliot’s quietly reading a book when Hardison enters the control room, so he throws him a nod. “Okay if I boot this puppy up?”

“Go for it,” says Eliot with a shrug, so Hardison sidles up to the keyboard and flips on the screen, updating the business spreadsheet ( _income: nil, outgoing: rent, wages, utilities_ ), dipping into the latest CDC statistics, and eyeing up that real fine laser engraver that’s supposed to be releasing later this year—

_Blip!_

Hardison pulls his hands away from the keyboard. “That was not me.”

“That’s me,” says Eliot, and Hardison watches in confusion as Eliot picks up his phone, frowns at it briefly, taps twice, and returns to reading like everything is normal.

Eliot and casual phone notifications are _not_ normal.

The phone _blips_ again, and again, it’s just a few taps before it’s set aside. Minutes pass.

_Blip!_

“Are you playing an app game?” he finally blurts out.

“Yeah? I guess?”

“ _No_ ,” breathes Hardison. “Eliot, tell me it’s not Farmville.”

Eliot wrinkles his brow at thim. “What is—no, I’m playing chess.”

“You. _You_ are playing online chess with randos?”

“It’s not a rando,” Eliot protests, making air quotes with his free hand, and then his voice lowers into a grumble. “It’s just Nate.”

Hardison almost laughs. Okay, maybe he does laugh, but just a little! Because of course Eliot and Nate would find a way to stay in touch that didn’t involve actually having to _talk_ to each other.

~

“Hi Amy!” Parker chirps. Sophie told her that when you talk on the phone, you have to be extra expressive, because the other person can’t see your face. 

Amy’s voice in her ear is confused. “Hello? Who is this?”

“Oh! This is Parker.” She rolls her hands over the six round balls she has in front of her. Juggling three had been pretty easy. Doubling it shouldn’t be too difficult.

“Oh! Hi Parker. How are you guys doing? Oh—are we opening up again?”

“What? No! Why would we open up? I mean, apart from being bored out of our minds.” She palms the first of the juggling balls and throws it up to roll down her other arm, acclimating to the weight of it.

“Well, some businesses are starting curbside pickup...”

“Yeeeeeaaah, that’s not my thing.”

“But are you guys going to be okay?”

Parker snorts. “Oh, yeah, we’re fine. We aren’t licking any door knobs, and we haven’t killed each other yet. We can totally handle this.”

“That’s… I meant as a business, Parker.”

“Really not a concern,” says Parker, tossing three balls into the air and settling into the rhythm of it. “Also boring. So! What have you been up to? Drawing… stuff?”

~

Eliot is thinking about the next grocery run—average time in and out, priority rankings and backup plans for out of stock items—when he passes through the living room and sees Hardison’s got some new nonsense hooked up to the TV. 

He frowns. That TV is for _sports_. Also, Hardison’s in his workout shorts and brandishing a black steering wheel, which is bizarre, even for Hardison. 

“The hell is this?”

“This,” says Hardison, spinning around with a grin, “Is the next revolution in video games! _And_ it means I can now exercise in the safety and comfort of my own home, so no need for more sweaty gym field trips.”

Eliot narrows his eyes at the TV screen.

“.... this is your monochrome computer game.”

“Dark Souls. This is _Dark Souls_ ,” Hardison says in deeply aggrieved tones, “Only one of the most brilliant, challenging—ugh, nevermind. But look! I’ve jacked into these new inputs—motion sensor in the leg band, so when I run, my character runs, see? It’s calibrated to my movement!”

He jogs in place, and Eliot crosses his arms over his chest as the character on the screen careens drunkenly around a dark castle hallway. Between that and Hardison, he’s not sure who looks more ridiculous.

“And if I swing, I use my weapon!”

“That’s not how you use that weapon.”

Hardison cocks his head to one side and gives Eliot his _bitch please_ look. “You’ve never used a flamberge.”

“Prague, ten years ago.”

They have a stare down.

Hardison’s eye twitches.

Eliot raises his chin, just a little.

“Ridiculous,” says Hardison, and turns back to the TV. “Now if you’ll _excuse_ me, I have some monsters to slay.”

~

Slaying monsters is hard. Hardison dies, in game, and then collapses on the floor. He feels like he’s dying in real life too.

He’s not sure if it’s better or worse than Eliot yelling “C’mon, Hardison!” as every muscle in his body is systematically brutalized.

He decides to bench the Dark Souls mod and try something a bit more mainstream.

~

“Why are you on fire?”

“What!” Hardison jerks around, but Parker’s staring at the screen. “Oh. That just means I’m burning it up! You know. I’m burning calories.” He pauses, starts over. “This is a fitness game. It’s called Ring Fit.”

She throws herself back onto the couch and rips open a bag of gummy frogs. “I liked the monster game better.”

Hardison shudders. “Yeah, I uh… I think the console controllers are better for that one.”

She giggles. “You collapsed on the floor. Like a sweaty puddle.”

“There’s a dragon in this game too, you know,” Hardison says quickly. Trying to distract her. “A real grumpy, ripped dragon.”

“Oh! Like Eliot!” she says, and Hardison laughs until he snorts.

~

Eliot is ready. The list is solid, he has backups for the backups, and all that’s left is grabbing the bags, his keys and wallet, and donning a facemask. He passes through the living room again, and sees that Hardison is doing something new. 

“The heck are you doin' now?”

“I. Am. Working out,” Hardison grits out, shaking his hips from side to side. “This move has the best attack range—”

“You look ridiculous.”

“Ooooho no. You said I needed activity, so I am working out. Because I _respect_ you! And that means you gotta respect me back! You can go pump iron, and Parker can do her crazy ventilation shaft pull-ups, and Hardison gets to do _his_ workout how _he_ wants. This is a no-judgement zone."

“I didn’t agree to that,” says Eliot, as Parker grins and says, “You’ve just been making smoothies.”

“I’ve been stocking up on important inventory items! Which is what you _do_ before you engage a boss!”

“We’re still doing basic combat training,” says Eliot, shaking his head before walking away.

Parker leans forward on the couch. “Drink a strawberry smoothie next!"

~

Eliot’s in the kitchen trying—once again—to explain why cups get put into the dishwasher facing downward, when Parker throws herself onto a kitchen stool and slumps onto the counter.

Hardison goes to her immediately. “What’s wrong, momma? You look all... floppy.”

“Mrrggggh.”

“Talk to me, baby.”

“Everything’s standing still,” Parker complains. “It’s boring. I’m all wound up but then there’s nothing to do, so I get floppy. Eliot knows, but he still gets to do his thing.”

“His thing?”

“You know. He’s stuck, but we’re stuck all together, so it’s okay. He gets to retrieve, all the time, but I don’t get to steal! Or plan!”

Eliot meets Hardison’s eyes. “She’s going stir-crazy.”

She rolls her torso off the counter and onto the second stool, arms dangling. “We never hang out on tall buildings together anymore.”

Eliot feels his mouth twitch into a smile. "We can hang out on a roof with you any ol’ time you want, darlin."

“We’ve got a roof literally above our heads,” Hardison agrees. “Though I think I’d prefer a nice picnic.”

“Why not both, genius?” asks Eliot, and Parker snaps upright. 

Hardison shoots him a slow-growing grin.

“Like a party,” Parker breathes.

“What are we celebrating?”

“Us, obviously! Hardison, we have to decorate! And Eliot will make the food!”

“What do you wanna eat?” he asks.

“Make it taste like summer!” says Parker. “And fancy!”

Hardison just continues smiling at him. “Whatever you want to make, my man.”

~

Eliot wants to make them happy. He wants to keep them safe.

He wants… to make them eat vegetables.

He spends the day slivering cucumbers and chilling rice noodles and deveining jumbo raw shrimp, lime juice zesting the air and crushed peanuts dusting his hands.

~

The sun is setting as Eliot shoulders the door to the roof open.

There are wrestling mats on the ground, with a slightly askew picnic blanket draped on top of it, and there’s a crooked sort of gazebo structure built around it, built from PVC piping and—Eliot squints—two ladders and a broom. He notices his guitar has also been pilfered and added to their rooftop assembly. 

There are purple and pink flowers in small pots everywhere. He wonders if Parker... _acquired_ them one at a time.

“Donuts over here!” Hardison calls out, pointing, and Eliot puts the pile of plates and silverware down to peruse his options. Of all the Portland businesses doing delivery, of course there are still donuts. There’s something coconutty, that cereal monstrocity Parker loves, a chocolate striped thing… Eliot reaches for a glazed knot, flakey and slightly sticky on his fingertips.

He should have brought more napkins.

Speaking of—he puts the donut aside and starts laying out the plates on the picnic blanket. He can smell the flowers—a sweet fragrance. Pleasant.

“Did Parker clear out a garden center?” he asks Hardison. 

“She said it wouldn’t be a picnic without plants,” Hardison says, grinning. “And I guess she just really likes petunias?”

He reaches behind him and pulls out three thin glass flutes.

“Champagne?” Eliot asks. Not what he would pair with Thai—

“Oh, nah, we got a nice Grenache Blanc, and beers in the cooler, but Parker said these were the fanciest glasses, and it had to be fancy for your dessert. I saw your menu notes—merengue crepes with mango sticky rice? You two are really going all out on this.”

Eliot pointedly shifts his gaze to the makeshift gazebo, strung with lights and draped with strips of their second-best curtain.

Hardison is waving his hands around, as if that hides his blush. “Well, I had to contribute _something_ …”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eliot sees Parker reach into the donut box with both hands, chomp into two different donuts, and then put them back.

“Parker!” he barks, “Stop taking a bite outta those!

“What—baby, we’ve had these before,” Hardison says. “You already know which one you like best!”

Parker stares Eliot in the eye and they watch as she pulls another pristine donut from the box and takes a bite. “What if I want more than one?” she asks, mouth full, before she shakes her head a little and puts it back.

Eliot rolls his eyes. “That’s not how that works.”

“Why not?” she asks, and then, “I do want this one though,” as she pulls out the cereal one. He looks to Hardison for sympathy, but Hardison just shrugs, smiles, and plugs a cable in. Around them, sparkling lights flare up, winking against the setting sun.

“Ta daa!” he says, flourishing for his audience of two. “And I’ve also set up a radio emitter, here and here, that should keep mosquitos away. You see, according to a study at the U of Arizona, the frequency—”

“It’s great,” Parker says sweetly, cutting him off before he gets too far, and holds up her donut. “Here, try some.” Classic Sophie move, acknowledge and redirect. He can see Hardison knows it too, but he takes a bite agreeably anyways.

“You too, Eliot,” Parker says, bounding over to shove her donut in his face.

Eliot cranes his neck away. “I don’t want yours.”

“Just a taste!” she demands, and he crumples for her like he often does. Just a small bite, a cereal bit crunching strangely beneath his teeth.

She’s looking at him expectantly.

“…too sweet.”

“Pfsh, this fritter has just as much sugar,” says Hardison, chewing, Eliot’s donut in hand.

“That’s my—” Eliot surges to his feet and snatches it back. “You too?”

Hardison puts his hands up. “She started it.”

Eliot glares at him. “Fine. Give it here.”

“What?”

“You took a bite of mine, I get a bite of yours.”

“What, no, you don’t even want—”

Parker nods. “That does seem fair. Here, Eliot, catch!” and chucks Hardison’s half-eaten eclair at his face.

He takes a giant bite.

“Now you’re just being spiteful,” complains Hardison, eyes crinkling in laughter. “And you’ve got chocolate on your nose.”

~

Dinner is… amazing, even knowing from the start that it’s Eliot in the kitchen. Hardison is pretty sure he’s never had shrimp this juicy—and those crunchy rice paper rolls! There was something stir-fried and orange that tasted like a spicy bite of heaven, and a potato coconut curry, soaking into a perfectly shaped pat of rice. He and Parker heaped on the praise and enthusiastic sounds as Eliot ducks his head to hide his smile, clearing one plate after another. 

And then there are the crepes. Beautiful, thin, sweet—melt-in-your-mouth, with a rich mango rice pudding. Hardison brings his fingers to his lips and gives an exaggerated chef’s kiss.

“This is summer,” says Parker, reverent.

Hardison sighs when the plate is empty and leans back, patting his stomach in great contentment. Above them, the sun’s gone down, and past his string of lights, he can see the stars.

“That was amazing,” he tells Eliot, reaching out and slapping-bumping their fists together. “Damn.”

“I brought your guitar,” Parker informs Eliot, leaning over to grab it and dropping it into his lap.

Hardison likes this version of Eliot—soft around the edges. A little rumpled. He likes the winter-soldier-machine-that-saves-his-life version of Eliot too, but that’s just one facet of the man.

Hardison watches Eliot’s rough fingers, gentle as they cradle the neck of the guitar. Killer’s fingers. Chef hands.

Just thinking about it is crazy, makes him _feel_ a little crazy, in a good way. Like the high of a perfectly pulled heist. Eliot knows they’re watching, and he still lets them _see_... even if he is a little shy about a few of them.

“Sing us a song,” Parker demands, and Hardison nods and they both badger Eliot until he pretends to surrender and shuts his eyes and loses himself in the music, voice husky and low and so damn _earnest_.

Parker slips her hand into his, and Hardison leans their sides together.

Nate told him not to get cocky, but he’s pretty sure he’s got this figure out. He _is_ a genius… and a genius knows when he’s being serenaded.

~

“Hey,” says Parker. “I think the garden center I ransacked is getting blackmailed to smuggle crates in from the Netherlands.”

“Seriously?” asks Hardison, looking up from the drone he’s disemboweling. “The garden store?”

“Finally,” says Eliot, tossing aside his paperback.

Parker smirks and waggles a USB. “I downloaded the computer files.”

Hardison’s own grin grows as he reaches for his laptop. “That’s my girl!”

“And I’ve got photos of the crates, and these are definitely not fertilizer.”

“Tulips,” says Eliot, nodding. “What? They’re a very distinctive bulb.”

“The Netherlands exports something like 70% of the world’s flower bulbs,” Hardison reads, and whistles. “Damn, that’s a lot of flowers.”

“So,” says Eliot, and they both turn to her expectantly.

She beams at them. “Let’s go steal a garden center!”

**Author's Note:**

> I started this before I finished Leverage, so some things may be a little... off? Hopefully you still enjoyed, because writing it was a hoot.


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